Who sang to him night and day And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, Though at times his heart beats wild Though at times he hears in his dreams And the mother at home says, "Hark! It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!" — Longfellow. GOOD LIFE-LONG LIFE It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be, Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear. A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. -Johnson. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory. - Wolfe. OLD IRONSIDES Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more! Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Oh, better that her tattered hulk Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale! - Holmes. THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER It was a hundred years ago, When, by the woodland ways, Beneath the hill, whose rocky side And fenced a cottage from the wind, She only came when on the cliffs In which she walked by day. White were her feet, her forehead showed A spot of silvery white, That seemed to glitter like a star And here, when sang the whippoorwill, But when the broad midsummer moon Beside the silver-footed deer The cottage dame forbade her son "It were a sin," she said, "to harm "This spot has been my pleasant home "The red men say that here she walked A thousand moons ago; They never raise the war-whoop here, And never twang the bow. "I love to watch her as she feeds, The youth obeyed, and sought for game Where, deep in silence and in moss, But once, in autumn's golden time The crescent moon and crimson eve He raised the rifle to his eye, Away, into the neighboring wood, |